Curve Ball

In the Crook of a Curved Branch


Soft curves, sharp focus.

Black layers edged in curls of the setting sun’s reflected light on a cloudless night.

The white is an illusion; he will blend seamlessly into night within the hour.

Red-winged blackbirds seem in a frenzy to find one another, cawing madly and swooping among the highest branches.  Other birds, tiny and tea-colored, dive into marsh grass, leaving weaving trails which last only seconds before the reeds and early summer stalks unbend and unbow.  A rare bird of prey circles overhead.

Once again I’m alone in the woods–the same predicament that was the subject of my first favorite picture book, whose words I memorized to give the appearance of being a precocious reader.

Well, not quite alone.  The only traditionally visible human, however.

That childhood book, Betsy’s Adventure in the Woods, ended before the protagonist’s bedtime, when her big brother found her and lead her back home to her family.  My outing will end in a solitary walk under a sliver of moon to an empty home.  Life has hurled some curve balls.

I am not particularly well-constituted for them.



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